The White Rose Muderer
by INSANITY - BRILLIANCE
Summary: Edward Nygma and Winifred James had many things in common. They liked puzzles and brain teasers. They were forensic analysts for the Gotham City Police Department and shared the same work-space. And they both had rather ridiculous names. However, they'd never met, never officially met, until an old case is reopened and 'Freddie' is forced to face the demon from her past.
1. Prologue

**Summary:** Edward Nygma and Winifred James had many things in common. They liked puzzles and brain teasers. They were forensic analysts for the Gotham City Police Department and shared the same workspace. And they both had rather ridiculous names. However, they'd never met, never officially met, until an old case is reopened and 'Freddie' is forced to face the demon from her past.

 **WARNING!: THIS FIC CONTAINS GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF MURDER SCENES AND IMPLIES REFERENCES TO RAPE. IF THIS IS IN ANY WAY A TRIGGER, PLEASE STOP READING NOW.**

* * *

 **The White Rose Murderer  
Prologue**

* * *

There was always an allure to darkness for him. Daylight always seemed too harsh, too happy. But night, night was soothing and somber. He never understood how or why people were afraid of the dark. If he were sane, he might have contributed to it being a fear of the unknown. However, he wasn't and logical reasoning was something he cared little for.

It only constrained yourself to a box.

The man's eyes darted over to the open window where streams of moonlight filtered through the glass. The bright city lights twinkled in the distance casting an ethereal glow on the skyline. It was a stark contrast to the stiff tension in the room.

A tiny whimper sounded from the other side of the room. The man turned on his heals studying the two terrified faces illuminated by the soft moonlight. Mr. and Mrs. Kohler were both gagged and bound to two wooden chairs in the middle of their spacious living room. Mrs. Kohler had tears streaming down her pretty face, rolling off her nose, whilst she sniffled pathetically. Mr. Kohler struggled against his bindings casting worried glances to his wife and scathing glares to the man standing by the windows.

He tsked quietly to himself before crossing the room over to the couple. Stopping in front of Mrs. Kohler, he took her chin firmly between his thumb and index finger, tilting her face up to meet his eyes, and sighed. "Stop sniffling, love." He chided almost gently, "It does nothing to change my mind. Oh, what a kind world that would be, huh?"

Behind him Mr. Kohler made grunt of protest when the man brushed his lips tenderly against his wife's forehead. Mrs. Kohler shied away from his touch, tears increasing tenfold. The man let her taking a step back and focusing on the rolled bundle sitting on the coffee table. With nimble fingers he untied and rolled out the cloth case.

A dozen small surgical tools glittered in the moonlight. He examined each one thoroughly holding it up to the light in his latex gloved hand. He settled on the small scalpel; removing it from its place and twirling it between his fingers. The couple watched warily as he turned holding the small knife between them as if he was looking for their approval at his choice.

"Shall we begin?"

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Okay so I said that I wouldn't, but apparently I possess little self-control. When I think of a new story, I just have to start writing it... it's my impulse. :(

I've recently started posting stories to AO3, so if anything happens to this one it'll be there as well. My pen name is J_L_Hynde to those that are interested. I've decided to start using AO3 for fandoms that might be a little more on the MA then M. This is one of those stories that might lean more that way in later chapters. For the most part, I intend to keep it strictly M; which on this site means ages 16+. If you're younger than that you should probably not be reading this.


	2. Dream On

**A/N:** This chapter's title is inspired by Aerosmith's Dream On.

* * *

 **Chapter One  
"Dream On"**

* * *

 _"Sing with me, sing for the years. Sing for the laughter, sing for the tear. Sing with me, just for today. Maybe tomorrow, the good Lord will take you away…"_

...

Working in forensic science, Edward Nygma had seen his fair share of cases. Gotham city, New Jersey was known to be one of the worst cities in terms of crime which meant that he saw more cases during the day than your average analyst. After a while, many of these cases started to blend together; the gruesome images and factoids overlapping to the point where it was difficult to remember which belonged to which crime scene.

Still there were cases that stuck with you. And they were typically the most high-profile and grizzliest of the bunch.

Nygma examined the scene before him. His eyes flickered past the homicide squad snapping photographs, bagging evidence, and looking over the two bodies in the center of the room. Detectives James Gordon and Harvey Bullock stood between the corpses and appeared to be in a very heated discussion. He could overhear some of what Detective Bullock was saying, his gruff voice carrying across the room.

"Great another fucking copy-cat!" He remarked sarcastically waving his arms toward the two bodies, "I'm getting real tired of having to resolve old cases. First the goat murders and now this bullshit…"

Detective Gordon response was more subdued gesturing to the white rose sitting idly on the coffee table. Nygma couldn't make out what the blond said, but his eyes still gravitated over the pristine white petals.

"Of course it is," Bullock erupted. "The white rose was the detail that those leeches latched onto first. Even if it's not, it's still…" The older detective cut off finally noticing the lanky forensic analyst with the horn-rimmed glasses.

"Nygma! Stop gawking and get over here," he barked roughly.

The forensic analyst sighed internally and made his way over. "Good morning, Detectives!" He chirped cordially.

"Morning, Ed." Detective Gordon replied weakly, whilst Bullock grumbled under his breath about needing a coffee –' _maybe an Irish coffee_.'

The man didn't take the blatant hostility personally. It was a usual occurrence; a little fact, that was disheartening to say the least, which he had long since become to expect. It was only made worse when it was a high-profile case like this one. Bullock always got testier when there was more pressure involved.

 _'His douchebag personality correlates directly to severity of the case. The more severe the case, the more he's a dick.'_ A voice drawled plainly in the back of his mind. _'But, then again… when isn't he a dick?'_

Nygma cleared his throat to cover up the amused chuckle bubbling out his mouth. He adjusted his glasses. A reflex when he was overly nervous or agitated. Then he began his examination of the bodies.

The first, a woman of approximately late twenties or early thirties, was positioned on a wooden chair unbound; but the marks on her wrist and ankles suggested she had been at some point during the incident. She had a deep laceration across her neck, slashing through the esophagus, and spilling thick trails of blood down her bare breasts to her stomach. Nygma push her thighs apart seeing the blood staining the wooden chair.

 _'Raped,'_ he concluded casting and glance over his shoulder at what assumed to be the husband who was still fully clothed. _'Multiple times judging by the blood and he made the husband watch.'_

He frowned and returned his attention back to the laceration in the woman's neck. It was a thin cut, suggesting a small blade, but it was deep and very precise. There were no jagged edges. So someone, not only had the skill, but also the strength to slash through her throat in one fluid motion. Both the left and right common carotid was slashed through and it looked as if it started from the left side. This lead him to believe that the killer used his right hand to drag the knife across her throat.

His gloved hand came up and traced along the cut before gently slipping two fingers into the opening and feeling around her esophagus. He made a tiny noise of hum of interest when he found what he was looking for. Behind him, Detective Gordon turned his attention to the analyst. "Find something?"

"What fastens two people together, but only touches one?" The man asked a slight smile on his lips.

Detective Gordon thought about it for a moment, before Bullock, in his usual impatience, ground out: "Just tell us what you found, Nygma. We don't have time for riddles."

The smile fell and he held up his gloved hand, stained red with blood. The detectives looked at the thick gold band he held between his thumb and index finger. "A wedding ring," he explained. "Detective Bullock I know you think this is a copy-cat, but you do realize that this little fact isn't something we released to the press. I'm positive if you go digging around the husband's throat you'll find the wife's ring too."

Bullock scowled something fierce and swore under his breath. "A fucking partner! Great fucking work, Nygma!" He muttered crossly.

He wasn't sure whether or not it was a compliment, but Nygma decided to take it as one. "Thanks, Detective."

…

Back at the precinct, news of the reopened White Rose Murderer case spread like wildfire. It was kind of funny actually, because cops weren't typically people you thought to gossip –but damn… did the police force of Gotham City gossip. They were worse than a bunch of preteen girls.

Nygma never paid much attention to it. Instead his thoughts were preoccupied with finding out all he could on the White Rose Murderer, a.k.a. Magnum Terrell.

The White Rose Murderer was a fairly recent case. Having occurred two years ago, it was still near the forefront of a lot of people's minds. It was the case that got Nygma his job, indirectly of course as the person before him had requested a transfer to the graveyard shift after it happened. And really who could blame her? Nygma certainly couldn't; he had never been personally targeted by a serial killer and he couldn't begin to imagine what she went through with that case.

Winifred James was the name of the woman who had the job before him. It was an old name and he couldn't he help picturing a little old lady with stark white hair and thick wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. He knew that it was a gross exaggeration. Winifred was only two years younger than himself; something he found out after taking a look into her file –purely out of curiosity, mind you.

He found it strange that they had been technically working together for two years and he still knew next to nothing about her. The very little he did know he deduced from the items she left in their shared office or the notes she scrawled messily onto the post-its stuck to the casefiles.

Through these little clues, he learned that she extremely perceptive and intelligent; albeit a little disorganized. She liked reading books on a variety of subjects, however lately she showed more interest in medieval history. She also loved music, but favored vinyl over CD's. Still the thing that stood out to him the most was her unbelievably generous personality. Out of all the people he'd met over his time at the precinct, she was the only one to remember his birthday and to get him a gift.

They weren't friends because you couldn't be friends with someone you never met, but Nygma liked to think that at least on some level they understood each other.

Still he was curious to see what would happen when Captain Essen called her in to review the case.

…

 _[Ring. Ring. Ring. BEEP.]_

 _"Hey! You've reached Freddie James. Sorry I couldn't come to the phone right now. Leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as possible…"_

The woman screwed her eyes shut as her answering machine beeped. She had been sleeping to prepare to go to work that night. She could tell it was still far too earlier for her to be up. _'Stupid phone… waking me up,'_ she hissed turning over and throwing her pillow over her head to drown out the noise.

"–Hello Miss James, it's Captain Essen from GCPD…"

Freddie's eyes snapped open when she heard the familiar voice of Sarah Essen on her answering machine. She bolted up immediately reaching blindly for her house phone in the darken room. The black-out curtains blocked most sunlight from breaching the little oasis, but she could still tell it was some time before noon. Her legs got tangled in the sheets as she struggled toward the bedside table and she just managed to grab the phone from the receiver before she slipped off the mattress.

Landing on the floor with a thud, Freddie hissed in pain and muttered a few expletives. "–mother fuck… _shit, that's gonna leave a bruise._ Hello Captain Essen," she answered rubbing her blurry eyes.

"Miss James," the other woman replied, "I'm glad I caught you."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. I need you to come in to the precinct today," Essen told her plainly.

Confusion and surprise passed over her face and she squinted her eyes looking at the alarm clock on the bedside table. The numbers were fuzzy without her contacts or glasses, but she was still able to make out the time. _10:24 am._

"Oh…okay, what time do you need me in?" She asked.

"As soon as possible."

She considered how long it would take her to get ready and how much traffic there would be with people going out to lunch. She would have to hail a cab to get downtown where the precinct was. "I can be there in an hour at the earliest," she said.

"That's fine," Essen agreed. "Come to my office when you get here."

Then there was a click and the older woman was gone. She gave no explanation as to why Freddie needed to come in or what she needed from her. Yet Freddie had the sneaking suspicion that whatever the reason was… it wasn't because she was getting a raise.

She sighed laying the device back on the receiver. Then she picked her glasses and slipped them on; the indistinct shapes of her bedroom becoming clearer instantaneously. Combing her fingers through her tangled strawberry colored waves, she groaned face planting on the mattress.

Fuck work…it was too early. She wanted nothing more than to roll up in her comforter and go back to sleep. Working at the precinct had a lot of long nights and she had only gotten off her shift a couple hours ago. She had only just managed to stumble into her apartment, take off her jeans, and collapse onto the bed without giving two shits about the fact she hadn't showered or bothered to eat dinner... ' _or breakfast,'_ she reasoned idly.

And when was the last time she had been awake at this time? Probably, not since she got transferred; although thinking more about it she recalled a tea that her mother had forced her to go to with the other socialite housewives and their daughters. Her mother had been so fuming mad when she retaliated by showing up in a pair of ripped jeans and white tee-shirt with a bedazzled penis on the front.

Still, it was the most interesting tea any of those old bitties had ever hosted.

Freddie slowly sat up, figuring that sitting on the floor like she was wasn't going to get her to the precinct any faster. Then she stood up and stretched her arms above her head; smiling when she heard the satisfying pop from her spine. "Time to face the music," she muttered.

As she did every day, or evening, she started a pot of super strong coffee before she hopped into the shower. Washing all the grime from the previous day left her being a little more awake, a little more human. She didn't spend a lot of time standing in front of the mirror. Make up was something she couldn't care less about and also lacked both the patience and the skill to use it properly. Nevertheless, if she was being honest a coat of foundation would look better than her pale skin that hadn't seen the sun in months.

Appearance wise, Freddie wasn't the most aesthetically beautiful. In school, she was often bullied for the bright red hair, ghostly pale skin, dozens of freckles, and the oh so begging-to-be-mocked grandfather glasses that she wore. Luckily, she wised up and switched to the less noticeable contacts; but there wasn't anything to be done about the hair, the skin, or the freckles. She had learned to accept these physical traits over time, however it was difficult to shake the self-consciousness sometimes.

The woman shuffled out of the bathroom approximately twenty minutes later; wrapped in a towel and a toothbrush poking out of her mouth. She hurried into her room. Tossed the shirt, underwear, and pants onto the already overflowing laundry basket in the corner of the room. Then began to rifle through her dwindling collection of clean clothes for a suitable outfit to wear.

She settled on a soft tee with a picture of an out of print cover of George Orwell's ' _Animal Farm_ ' on the front and a pair of relatively clean black skinny jeans. She grabbed her trusty leather jacket from its place on the door and threw it on before collecting her discarded Nikes from under the bed. She did this all while scrubbing the plaque from her teeth.

Back in the kitchen, she spat out the excess toothpaste into the sink. Her Siamese cat, Mr. Mao, had decided to jump up on the counter and watch his human rush around like a headless chicken. "Are you hungry, Mr. Mao?" She chirped happily reaching out to pet him.

The cat hissed and retreated to the other side of the counter, furthest away from where his owner stood. This was a usual occurrence every time Freddie attempted to pet him. For whatever reason he simply did not like her and it wasn't for lack of trying. She tried everything from new cat toys to catnip filled treats. The only time he was remotely affectionate was when she was opening a can of canned tuna to mix in with his dry cat food.

"Fine, be that way," she remarked turning around and pulling a thermos cup out of the dishwasher before pouring the freshly-brewed super strong coffee into it. "Little shit…"

For breakfast, she settled on leftovers of spicy Indian curry that she reheated in the microwave. It only took ten more minutes and a second cup of coffee later that she was hurrying out the door; throwing a half-hearted bye at Mr. Mao and threatening him if he decided to claw up her shoes again. Then it was mad dash to the elevator and hailing a cab downtown to the precinct.

…

The Gotham City Precinct loomed overhead; the massive structure springing from the ground. In a place like Gotham, it should've been a beacon of light, hope that all the shit outside its doors would be cleaned up and the wrongdoers brought to justice. But it wasn't that kind of symbol –not to say it wasn't a symbol. It was just a symbol of everything wrong with the city.

Freddie knew, as did most people, that the cops weren't there to protect the city or its citizens. In fact, most if not all were on Falcone's payroll and the ones who weren't… Well, let's just say that none of them wanted to go on a little trip to the docks. And not one of them, Freddie included, was stupid enough to speak up against it.

Did that make them all cowards? Probably.

The redhead paid her cab fare then sprinted up the long stone steps into the building. She was running late because the cab had gotten stuck behind an accident with a truck full of chickens. It had taken forever to get the chickens back into their cages and just when she had considered getting out of the cab and hopping on the subway was when the last pesky bird was put back in its cage. By then there was no point in getting a different mode of transportation.

She hurried past the surprised desk clerk, Mrs. Doris, and weaved through the detectives' desks. Had she had more time to notice her surroundings, the woman would've felt every single pair of eyes follow her to the Captain's office. She took one final sip of her coffee finishing it off and then she rapped firmly on the glass pane of the door.

When she pushed open the door she was greeted to the sight of two detectives standing in front of Captain Essen's desk. She immediately recognized Harvey Bullock, those fedora hats were a difficult thing to forget, but the other man was someone she didn't know. He stood a couple inches shorter than Harvey and had dark blond hair cropped short on the sides in a standard military style. He even looked like a solider in the way he carried himself as if he was still in the middle of a war.

"Ah, sorry I'm late. There was an accident on Sixth… chickens everywhere," she said.

"It's fine, Freddie." Sarah Essen assured her, then gestured to one of the two chairs than neither of the detectives occupied. "Have a seat."

Her eyes flickered over to the padded office chair then to the expressions of the other three people in the room. Suddenly, she became very aware of the seriousness of the situation. The room was almost smothering with rising tension and Freddie had never liked confrontation. Detective Bullock didn't seem to care much for it either, if his fidgeting was anything to go by.

Once she was seated, the dark skinned woman leaned forward resting an open case file on the wooden surface in front of her. She didn't know how to begin. It was like navigating a minefield and the wrong word might set the young woman off in a fit of hysterics.

Freddie stared blankly ahead waiting for the other woman to speak. ' _What is this about? Why was no one saying anything?'_ The tiny cogs in her head were turning as her eyes flickered down to the open file on the desk. It was challenging reading upside down, but her eyes skimmed through the first paragraph a heavy weight forming in her stomach.

 _'Victim's name is Bradford Kohler. Age 37. Examination of the victim shows the death was caused by a laceration to the front of the neck, nicking both the right and left common carotid. Upon further examination, forensics discovered a silver wedding and engagement ring creating a blockage in the esophagus…'_

"Miss James?" Essen's worried voice cut through the young woman's train of thought. The look of concern and unease on her face was both familiar and frustrating. It didn't take Freddie long to figure out what the hell was going on. The signs were all there; the phone call, the staring, the body language of the detectives, the first paragraph of the autopsy…

But it was that look –that goddamn look that really put everything into perspective for her.

"Did you hear what I just said?"

Her first response to the realization was fear. It flooded through her veins, chilling her blood. She could feel the color leaving her face; leaching out of her skin like bleach on a stain.

For a second, Freddie was back in that tiny, dank cellar. She saw the bright lights blinding her eyes causing red spots in vision. She felt the sturdy leather restraints binding her to that metal operating table. The smell of Magnum's thick cologne burned her nose and she could hear the low tenor of the man's voice as if he were standing right next to her; whispering how he was going to peek inside her head and finally figure out how her mind ticked.

Then as quickly as her mind left, she was back in the GCPD sitting in a cushion chair in front of Captain Essen with two detectives standing over her shoulder.

"Yes," she answered numbly. She vaguely recalled the police captain telling her about a homicide that morning. She re-winded the last few seconds of the conversation in her mind.

 _"–Bottom line,"_ Essen had said, " _we suspect that Magnum Terrell was working with someone before his incarceration. Harvey and Jim have gone down to Blackgate to see if they could get any information, but he only agreed to talk unless you were present…"_

Captain Essen studied the young woman across the table. Besides the initial surprise on her face, Freddie showed no signs of fear like one would expect. Instead she shifted in her chair leaning backwards and stared at her hands, absently brushing her thumb over a jagged scar on her palm. "I'll do it," she blurted out rather quickly.

The burnet blinked. She hadn't been expecting that response. "I think you misunderstood me, Freddie," she replied. "We're not going to have you go down to Blackgate. That's not what this meeting is about. I called you here today to suggest taking a few of your paid vacation days, possibly moving into a safe house…"

Freddie shook her head. "I'm sorry, no. Thank you for your concern, Ma'am, but no. I don't want to uproot my life again," she explained. "But if you're reopening the White Rose case, I need to be back on it."

"Look Kid," Bullock cut in finally, "not that you're not capable or nothin', but you'd just get in the way."

"That's funny," she chuckled bitingly, "I seem to recall that it was me who found Magnum's safe house while you were running around chasing your tail."

Harvey clenched his jaw at the not so subtle jab to his ego. "But it was your half-baked plan that also got you strapped to a table about to be dissected on," he reminded her. "And you've been had I not shown up. Trust me, you should leave this to the professional."

"Freddie, Harvey's right. You're too emotionally invested in this case…" Essen added only to be cut off by the redhead as she pleaded her case.

"Professional or not, no one knows this case or Magnum better. And in regards to my emotional state, I'll deal. Please, Cap. I know I can do this…"

And she could. Captain Essen knew that. Freddie had been –is –truly one of the most intellectually brilliant persons she'd ever met. When she had been regularly working on cases, she proved time and again that not only was she brilliant, but capable as well. Her emotions never effected the efficiency of her work.

 _'I can't believe I'm agreeing to this,'_ the woman sighed.

"Alright. I'm going against my better judgement on this, nonetheless you've made some good points. I'm going to let you work the case; however not without some conditions," Essen conceded. "First, you're going to accept patrol cars stopping by your apartment until this case is solved. Second, you're going have sessions with Dr. Manning in criminal profiling once a week because you opted out of it last time. Third and most important, you're going to leave the detective work to the detectives. You're in forensics, if you pull a stunt like you did last time **_I will not hesitate to suspend you._** Am I understood?"

"Yes, Ma'am." The woman nodded in agreement. Behind her, Detective Bullock made a noise somewhere between a scoff of disbelief and a groan of annoyance. "Thank you. Now about Blackgate…"

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

If you're wondering when this story takes place, it's somewhere after the goat killer episode and before the Dr. Crane episode. This will be a little AU as I only plan to reference things from the other episodes and for the most part this will have it's entirely different story-line. As this is still fairly early on in its development I will be accepting any ideas or suggest that you guys may have. Until then, read, review, and leave your thoughts in the comments. Constructive criticism is encouraged.


	3. Wild World

**A/N:** This chapter was inspired by the song Wild World by Cat Stevens.

* * *

 **The White Rose Murderer  
Chapter Two  
** ** _"Wild World"_**

 _"Baby, I love you. But if you wanna leave, take good care. I hope you make a lot of nice friends out there. But just remember there's a lot of bad and beware…"_

…

Insatiable curiosity was both a blessing and a curse.

As a child, Freddie had learned this lesson early on. Not everyone was as curious and not everyone responded to her probing questions and outward musings with the same childish bemusement that she did. It was only when she was older that she realized why. Her mind didn't function the same as everyone else's.

Expressions were sometimes hard to interpret, not to mention distracting. Her family shrink contributed this to a form of ADD. But she knew that it wasn't lack of focus, but too much focus that caused her to drift from one thing to the next. It could be very overwhelming in general with all the sounds and smells and sights constantly bombarding her and it certainly took a while before she learned to compartmentalize all this information. Still this unique facet of her brain allowed her to pick up on abnormalities and patterns that most people wouldn't.

And when it came to her job at the GCPD, this ability became invaluable. Of course a lot of people, Detective Bullock included, didn't believe that she really could tell who was and who wasn't the killer just by looking at them. Which was why when she told the dunderhead detective that she managed to narrow down three possible locations of Magnus Terrell's safe house by calculating an algorithm based the location where the victims were found and the qualities he would look for in a safe house, he gave her a glazed over stare and said, "Alright, good. I'm gonna head out to lunch. We'll talk about this when I get back." And she just knew that everything she told him went over his head.

She was still peeved about it as she sat in her beat-up little Honda fiddling with the dials on the a/c. Waiting around for the detectives to pull their heads from their asses wasn't an option, so like any curious person she decided to check out locations for herself. Winters were bitterly cold in Gotham, but the summers were hot as fuck. How anyone could stand this heat was beyond her. She was sweating like a pig in an oven and her crappy a/c was doing next to nothing to help.

"Damn thing… of all the times for you to be a crappy piece of shit," she muttered hitting the dashboard for emphasis before giving up on it altogether. She sat back in her seat bring the pair of binoculars to her eyes. She scanned the street for anything suspicious.

It didn't take long. Being in the Narrows, the dingiest, ugliest part of Gotham, it was filled with suspicious and criminal behaviors. She idly flittered past the drug dealer on the corner and a prostitute having an altercation with her pimp then settled on a dilapidated house at the end of the block.

House was a kinder word for what the structure actually was. At some point, she mused, it would've been a fairly decent home with soft blue paint and gray shingles and a light green door. However, as time passes places that were nice fall into disrepair. The light blue paint is now chipped and bordering more on the color of vomit, there were boards pulled up on the porch, and the roof had large patches where shingles were wholly missing. Nonetheless, it wasn't the house that her attention, but the non-descript cable-van parked outside.

"Huh? Now why is a cable-van parked there?" She wondered seeing no satellite dishes or any other sign that the place was even livable. She flipped through the witness accounts in her brain and stopping on Mr. Jeffery's, the doorman at the Castle Square Plaza, who mentioned briefly a cable-van parked on the street around the time of Mr. and Mrs. Alonso's deaths. She thought nothing of it at the time because it happened around mid-day and there were a couple hundred condos in the building any one of them could have called the cable company.

This certainly made sense though. She had long figured out that the only way he was able to get into the victims' homes, as easily as he was, was if he posed as a repairman of sorts. "I was right on both counts," she whispered to herself. No need to check out the other locations. She had found it.

Now all she needed was proof. Detective Bullock wouldn't take a cable-van parked in front of an abandon shack as gospel. She needed something more substantial. If she really wanted to drive her point home, she'd sneak into the place and snap some pictures on her phone.

A nagging feeling told her that was a bad idea. The practical thing would be to call one of the officers down at the precinct. _'Don't go in there alone,'_ the logical part of her brain told her. _'Be smart. Wait for back up.'_

"I'm not that stupid –oh! Wait, who is that?" she exclaimed sitting up straight and leaning forward to see who just came around the back of the house. Judging by the height and build the figure was decidedly male, sporting a cable-man uniform equipped with a uniform hat. She huffed irately when she realized she couldn't see his face because of the visor. The man walked to the van and hopped the driver's seat. And Freddie quickly ducked down when he pulled out and drove past the little alcove where she'd parked.

Curiosity nagged at her, urging her to get out of the car. _'Now's your chance. No one's home, it's safe…'_

 _'Don't be stupid! You don't know how long he'll be gone. Be safe, write down the address and go back to the precinct…"_ Logic responded.

 _'There's no guarantee he'll be back,'_ Curiosity added.

 _'There's no guarantee that he won't!'_

"—Aww shut up, shut up, shut up," Freddie let out a whine and rested her head against the steering wheel. Her thoughts were moving a mile a minute as she debated her options. Go or stay? She needed to think. She needed to make a decision. She needed to act…

"I need to go!" The words were out of her mouth before she even realized she said them. She needed to go. She just had too. The not knowing was torture. She couldn't stand it; one more second and it felt like she might die.

 _'Send a text first, send a text first…'_ her logic cut in helplessly, _'let someone know where you are.'_

She reached over fumbling with her purse. Pulling out her phone, she typed out a quick text to Bullock:

 _'Narrows. Bridgewater pass. At the end of the street.'_

…  
 _Present Day_

Freddie sighed as she shifted against the car door, watching the familiar scenery fly past the window. She was sitting in the back of Harvey's 1970 Chrysler, while the two detectives occupied the front of the car. No one had really said anything past the brief introduction to Detective Gordon. The awkward silence was palpable, still none of them made any move to break it.

Silence never bothered her, however; she knew that it bothered most people. And staying silent in an obvious uncomfortable situation bothered them even more. Pale blue eyes flickered to the rearview mirror taking note of Bullock's clenched jaw and stiff posture. He was still mad about her being put on the case. Detective Gordon was alternating between looking stiffly out the front window, shooting sidelong looks at his partner, and casting curious glances back at her when he thought she wasn't looking.

Even though social etiquette dictated that she should say something, anything, Freddie was still reluctant to do so. She hated small talk, better to get straight to the point and not dance around it like some pixie in a fairy ring. "So Detective Gordon," she began conversationally, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

The blond man whirled around not expecting that question. "I'm sorry –what?"

"You were in the Army, right? Special forces?"

"Yes," he replied looking thoroughly flummoxed. Beside him, Bullock cracked a small smile.

"So did you serve in Afghanistan or Iraq?" She asked.

"Both," he told her, "I did a brief stint in Iraq before moving on to Afghanistan. How did you know…"

The woman nodded to herself and filed that little tidbit away. "Ah, I see. Umm…hey could you pass back that casefile so I can read it?" She pointed to the thick manila file on the detective's lap. The sudden change in subject surprised the man, though he still handed the file over. "Thanks," she smiled crossing her jean clad legs in a meditation pose and plopping the heavy folder on her lap with a perfunctory _thunk_.

Her expression turned thoughtful while she quickly skimmed though its contents. Detective Gordon resumed staring out the window figuring the woman was done speaking. "Why'd you pick the GCPD? A place like Gotham isn't usually someone's first choice."

He glanced back briefly. "Gotham is home. I grew up here. After my contract was up, I thought that I'd like to use the skills I learned to help people," he explained. "The city's corrupt, but that's why I chose it. I want to make it better."

"That's a noble goal," she said with a helpless sigh. "Don't know how effective you'll be, what with Falcone and my father as mayor, though."

If she was being honest with herself, that was also why she chose the GCPD, instead of neurology like her parents wanted. But in a place like Gotham, helping people wasn't something people did. The city was a giant trash compacter. It took all those people with good intentions and chewed them up, spitting out warped broken versions of who they were. No one came out unscathed, not even her.

Detective Gordon turned around interested. "You're Mayor James's kid?" He asked.

Freddie gave a small shrug of her shoulders and nodded. "It's surprising, no?" She joked. "Most people are surprised. He rarely admits he has kids; except for when my existence furthers his political career."

"I take it you're not on good terms," Jim concluded.

"No, we're on great terms. We have a mutual agreement," she told him. "I don't do anything scandalous and he stays out of my life. It's how I like it, however, now I guess I'll be seeing a little more of him because of this case."

The woman frowned at the thought. To say that Freddie dislike her father wasn't entirely accurate; she didn't dislike him, yet she didn't like him either. She believed that you couldn't like or hate someone you didn't know. And that's what her parents were to her –strangers.

With her father always working and her mother running of to whatever spa or function or foreign city, she was left with an endless string of nannies, most of which she couldn't remember the names of, and only saw them when it was convenient. She didn't see them as parents because the word parent implies that the person had at least some part in raising a kid. Despite this, Freddie's relationship with them was cordial. They were, for all intended purposes, Mr. and Mrs. Mayor James and that's how she treated them.

Freddie flipped through a couple of the photographs in the file. They were mainly focused on the bodies of Bradford and Noel Kohler with a couple blood splatters in between. As familiar as she was with Magnum's work, the analyst knew that the bodies would provide no further insight and bypassed them. The bloods splatters, however, gave her a different perspective on the room itself.

Typically, Freddie would've just replayed the details of the crime scene in her head. She could walk through the entire murder in her mind and pick out details that she might've missed. In order to do that, though, she needed to have physically walked through the crime scene herself. It was an inconvenience that she had to make due with just photographs.

"How did people describe their marriage?" She directed the question at the two detectives. From what she remembered of the victims, they all had one very obvious thing in common. They were all married couples. But what she later learned was that none of them were happy marriages. The people Magnum targeted were liars, cheaters, con-artists, and simply put terrible people who only married to further their selfish desires; it's why he shoved the rings down their throats.

Mr. and Mrs. Kohler, however, showed no apparent signs that they even remotely unhappy. Perhaps it was the partner diverting from the usual victims, but something nagged at her. Everything else was on point. So why, if he did, would he diverge on this?

It was Bullock who answered. "Newlyweds. Not even married a year –as far as I can tell they were still in that honeymoon phase."

"And there's was nothing unusual about them?" She asked.

"Not from what we could tell," Gordon said. "Why?"

Freddie closed the file passing it back to the passenger seat. "He's breaking from the pattern. So far all the victims have been married couples –unhappy married couples," she explained. "I guess it makes sense, though, I mean it's a partner so he's bound to diverge from the pattern a little. But then why would he shove the rings down their throats? That was always something personal for Magnum. He romanticized marriage –thought it was something pure –only between two people who truly love each other. And when he came across a couple that didn't, he'd kill them and shove their wedding rings down their throats."

She might've been overthinking this. But still something didn't sit right with her about it. Why did this partner choose now to make his appearance? It had been two years. It would have been easy to disappear completely, just by changing the pattern. And what's to say that he didn't? Maybe he never stopped killing.

Freddie didn't get any more time to dwell on it, however, as they had just pulled into Blackgate. Captain Essen was against having Freddie go with the Detectives to the prison. Fortunately, the analyst convinced her by arguing that she was the best person to get any information out of Magnum and promising a dinner reservation for Jean Georges that Essen and her husband had been trying to get since Christmas last year. Sometimes being Mayor James's daughter had its perks.

The redhead stared up at the imposing walls of the building as she stepped out of the car. It had the same gothic architecture as the Arkham Asylum and both were made out of the same brown stone. From what she remembered, Blackgate at one point used to be a cathedral before it was turned into a prison. It still had a lot of its original structure, expect were the contractors altered it to make it more secure like the bars on all the windows.

She'd never liked this place. Then again, she didn't make it a point to come here. The last time she was here, it was for her father's press conference. He had added a new medical wing onto the building and made a long and hypocritical speech about caring for Gotham and its citizens; none of which was really true.

Detective Gordon looked over to his partner after Freddie had exited the car. "How did she know I was Special Forces? She always like that?"

Bullock nodded. "First time I met her, she asked if my father and I had always had a difficult relationship," he frowned, "To this day, I don't know how she knew that."

"Really?"

"Hey!" Freddie tapped on the window, "are you guys gonna get out or am I going in there alone?" She shifted impatiently, waiting. The detectives shared a look.

"Yeah we're coming," Bullock grumbled, "Geez, you act as if we're on a field trip."

Together, the three of them went through the usual security procedures and it wasn't long before they were seated in the visitors' hall waiting for Magnum to make his appearance. Freddie was trying to remain calm as she waited, yet no matter how much she tried she couldn't stop the tremors in her hands. The scars burned, an icy hot ache, at being in such close proximity to their originator. She ran her thumb over one of them absently. Despite all her previous bravado, she didn't want to be there. She didn't want to breathe the same air as Magnum, not to mention sitting across the table from him.

She felt the prickling sensation of a panic attack at the corners of her mind. She needed to calm down. She couldn't afford to lose it in front of people, especially detectives Bullock and Gordon. If they thought she couldn't handle it, Essen would pull her from the case faster than she could snap her fingers. Freddie decided to take a page out of her mother's playbook and lock all those emotions away, letting her face go blank.

Then she saw him. Freddie wasn't quite sure what happened next. She must've blacked out because one second he was at the other side of the room smiling lewdly, then the next he was seated across from her eyes roaming over her like a hungry predator.

The funny thing about Magnum was that he looked harmless. He was an aging man in his late fifties, still with a full head of stalk white hair, wrinkled face, and thick framed glasses; he seemed more like a grandfather than psychopathic killer. But if one were too look past all that, they'd see the unhinged look in his eyes, how they lit up at the prospect of doing things that would make the average person sick. Freddie knew just how much strength hid under his frail exterior and she had no intention of underestimating him –not again.

"Mmm...I like that scent," Magnum grinned at her, "the smell of oranges and fear. What a very distinct bodywash you use."

Freddie clenched her fists in her lap. He was trying to throw her off balance, that much she was sure off, which means that he definitely knew something about what was going on. But hell, she wasn't going to let him win. So she made a mental note to change her bodywash when she got home and spoke to him like the last comment never happened. "See one, do one, teach one. That's what they taught you in medical school," she said, "So who did you teach?"

"I dropped out of medical school, Winifred," he told her. "You know this."

"I know that you were kicked out for fondling a corpse." She bit back, challenging him to do something in return.

At her words, Magnum's smile fell from his face and was replaced by a stern look. She hit a nerve. Good. Then as quickly as the look came it vanished, leaving a blank-faced expression in its wake. "That's very good, Winifred. You've learned how to irritate me." He deadpanned, his eyes left her face burning a hole through the table top.

"Answer the question, Terrell." Detective Bullock cut in finally having enough of this little mind game. He was missing his lunch break for this little trip and he didn't care much for waiting.

Instead of responding to him, however, Magnum simple returned his gaze back to Freddie. "You know hands are so useful; dexterous. And yours used to play the piano. Tell me, can you still play?"

Freddie clenched her jaw. _'Low blow,'_ she thought.

"May I see them?" He asked.

She wanted to say no. But Freddie knew that if she wanted him to tell her anything about the case, she needed to adhere to this request. Calmly, she raised her hands from under the table, slowly turning them so he could see the two puckered scars on the fronts and backs. The doctors told her she was lucky, had the scalpels moved a millimeter in any direction the chances of using her hands would've been nonexistent. They still ached from time to time and she couldn't play the piano anymore because it hurt too much to stretch her thumb and pinky out when she switched scales. She wasn't going to tell him that, though.

"Good as new," she lied.

A grin stretched over Magnum's face again. "Glad to hear it. Be a shame if any part of you was permanently disfigured," his eyes trailed down her neck and settled on her exposed collarbone. Freddie found herself wishing she had chosen a button-up top that morning instead.

"It's your turn, Terrell," she reminded him hoping to bring his eyes back to her face. "You trained someone. Who is it?"

Instead of answering, however, the man merely leaned forward and continued to grin. "Do you dream me, Winifred? I dream of you. I love your skin…and your breasts –I didn't have the time to fully examine them…"

"–That's enough!" Detective Bullock yelled grabbing the prisoner's uniform, "Look here, you-son of a bitch, you're getting on my last fucking nerve. So answer the god-damn question before I really lose my patience."

"That's not a very clear threat, Detective," the man didn't flinch and continued on as if the outburst never happened, "Kind of weak. I'm sure Winifred could think of something better, right?"

Freddie stared blankly at the man. He was clearly dodging the question. "Evading the question by diverting our attention to another topic," she stated. "Surely, you didn't think that would work."

"Very good," Magnum smiled irately. "You never cease to surprise me at every turn. It kind of pisses me off, though not as much as the other thing. You know, all my life I've been meticulous about finishing what I start and that bothers me because I never finished what I started with you."

"And you're never going to," she sneered. "Now answer the question. I've answered yours."

He thought it over, weighing the possible pros and cons of telling them what they wanted to know. He couldn't tell them much. No, that wouldn't be nearly as fun if he did. Besides, prison was boring and he was starved for a little entertainment. Still, the woman had a point and she was such a good sport. "Guess it's only fair," Magnum grinned, "Yes. And no, I'm not going to give you a name. That would be doing your jobs for you and, oh, how I know how you love the chase. So enjoy 'em, _Freddie._ He'll enjoy you. Now, if you'll excuse me. I got a riveting game of solitaire waiting for me back in my cell. Hate to miss it."

The prison guards came over and hoisted the man up from the table. His chains rattled as he shuffled towards the door. They watched him go with equal looks of frustration. He never did answer the question.

…

"Well that was a fucking waste of time," Bullock complained once they got back to the car. "We didn't learn anything more than when we walked in there. So much for you getting him to talk."

Freddie pondered the events that just took place. She wouldn't say it was a complete waste of time. She did learn something from the excursion. Whether or not it would be useful later was yet to be determined. "It's more about what he didn't say than what he did," she explained. "He wouldn't tell us his name or give us any information on the person. He dodged the question at every turn. Goading us, mocking us, making us angry just so we wouldn't get the answers we were looking for…"

Gordon looked thoughtful a second before responding. "So you think he knew something?"

The redhead nodded. "It's more than that. I think he was protecting him because I think they're still in contact," she said. "I don't know how. But it would explain why he decided to appear now of all times and not sooner."

"It's a theory," Bullock agreed before a changing the subject to his rumbling stomach. "I'm missing lunch for this shit, though, I'm gonna stop on the way back for some food."

"Nygma might have some more insight into things," Gordon suggested, "You can catch up with him back at the precinct."

"Yeah," she sighed, "I need to pick his brain about some things."

The older detective scoffed as he maneuvered the car out of the parking lot. "Well good luck with that," he said, "the guy's an oddball, always talking in riddles. You'll be lucky to get a straight answer out of him."

The woman leaned back in her seat and resumed staring out the window. A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. Edward Nygma sounded interesting. Detective Bullock's blatant dislike of him made her more curious. Just what kind of person was he? As far as she knew, no one had much of anything nice to say about the man. "It's a good thing I like riddles," she mumbled to herself.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Thank you to those of you who have read, followed, and favorited this so far. As always constructive criticism is encouraged. Feel free to leave any thoughts, comments, or suggestions in the reviews. I love reviews cause it really shows me what works and what doesn't. I can't promise when the next chapter will be out, but just know that no matter what I do intend to finish this -no matter how long that may take.

 **To the one Guest reviewer:** Sorry it took so long to update. I didn't drop the idea I just got a little sidetracked with other things. Really didn't mean to get you hooked and leave you hanging. Still, I'm flattered that you liked it. :)


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